We took up this book with the conviction that we should be pleased with its contents, and our highly wrought expectations have not in any degree been disappointed. It is as high praise as we are able to bestow upon it, that we have read most of its contents with the very associations around us, which are required for the perfect production of the impressions intended to be produced by the poet--and that we have, in each and all, still found those impressions strengthening and deepening upon our minds, as we perused the pages before us. "The Buried Valley," in which is portrayed the well remembered tragedy of the avalanche, which, in 1826, buried a peaceful cottage situated at the foot of the White Mountains, with all its inhabitants, at midnight, is not perhaps the best, though a most deeply interesting part of the volume. It is too unequal in its style, and at times too highly wrought, perhaps, as a picture. But the idea which it gives the reader of the wild and magnificent spot upon which this terrible catastrophe occurred is perfect, and the description of the circumstances and incidents of the scene most faithful. The Scenery of the White Mountains of New Hampshire forms the inspiration of another poem also in this collection, which we boldly place beside any emanation from the most gifted of our poets. We allude to "Lines on an Eagle," on pp. 130 and 131. We must be chary of our space, and can therefore give but a single stanza, in corroboration of our opinion. Sail on, thou lone imperial bird, Of quenchless eye and tireless wing; How is thy distant coming heard, As the night-breezes round thee ring! Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun, In his extremest glory--how! Is thy unequall'd daring done, Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now! The "Martyr's Triumph" is a most splendid poem, and deserves all the praise it has received from reader and critic. What can be more beautiful than the exordium? Voice of the viewless spirit! that hast rung Through the still chambers of the human heart, Since our first parents in sweet Eden sung Their low lament in tears--thou voice, that art Around us and above us, sounding on With a perpetual echo, 'tis on thee, The ministry sublime to wake and warn!-- Full of that high and wondrous Deity, That call'd existence out from Chaos' lonely sea! And what more purely inspired than the following? Thou wast from God when the green earth was young, And man enchanted rov'd amid its flowers, When faultless woman to his bosom clung, Or led him through her paradise of bowers; Where love's low whispers from the Garden rose, And both amid its bloom and beauty bent, In the long luxury of their first repose! When the whole earth was incense, and there went Perpetual praise from altars to the firmament. And these are but single "bricks from Babel." Specimens, only, of the beauty and grace with which the poem abounds.